


a boy like me

by hesperia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesperia/pseuds/hesperia





	a boy like me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xylodemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/gifts).



When Jon arrives in Stannis' solar, the king is lounging back in one of the chairs at the table, and he motions for Jon to sit next to him.

"There's beer," Stannis says, as Jon shakes off the snow from his hair and shoulders. It's been snowing for three days now, with no sign of relief, but still Stannis plans to go to the Mountain clans on the morrow. "On the table, if you want it."

Jon helps himself to the beer, sitting down next to Stannis. He looks different in the low light of the solar, the hard edges of his face are softer, his shoulders not as rigid as they always are, and Jon realizes that the king is drunk. He is not the loud and obnoxious kind of drunk like many of Jon's black brothers, in fact were it not for those few signs, Jon would not have known at all.

"I understand you," he says, looking at Jon over the top of his cup. "I know what it's like to be the one no one wanted around."

Jon doubted that Stannis Baratheon knew a quarter of what it felt like to be a high-born bastard, he might have been treated badly but he was still trueborn, and that meant something more than anything else.

"I was never charming like Robert, never happy like Renly; I saw the world for what it was, I saw people for who they truly were, and now here I am, the only one still standing. Just like you."

"Standing all alone doesn't feel like victory to me," Jon says. Stannis' eyes narrow and he snorts derisively, but he doesn't argue Jon's point.

They drink late into the evening, speaking little, if at all, and as dawn draws closer Jon's face feels flushed, heat burning his cheeks, his eyes lazy and tired. It has been a long time since Jon has been so drunk, and he is unused to it, to the way his limbs feel twice their weight, how his balance has seemed to disappear completely when he stands to refill their cups.

"You don't have the face of a bastard," Stannis says, and he reaches out to grab Jon's jaw in his large hand, taking Jon by surprise. "You're far too pretty."

At first Jon thinks Stannis means to insult him, but then the king is rubbing a calloused thumb at the corner of Jon's mouth, over the fullness of his bottom lip. It's been a long time since Jon has been touched like that, not since Ygritte, and it is not until that moment he realizes how much he misses it, finds himself leaning into Stannis' touch.

Stannis grips Jon's hair tight when he pulls Jon forward, fitting his mouth over Jon's. The kiss is hard, violent in its wake, but Jon willingly opens his mouth to Stannis, his tongue thick in Jon's mouth, the heady taste of beer between them. It is in all ways the opposite of kissing Ygritte, the scratch of Stannis' day old stubble against Jon's, his lips chapped, thinner than Ygritte's mouth had been, but the aching need it fills is so familiar it burns all the way down Jon's spine, down deep in his belly.

There is a moment where Jon wonders where Melisandre is, if she's seen this in her fires, but then Stannis is pulling Jon up by the collar of his doublet, pressing Jon back against the edge of the table, lifting and pushing Jon down onto his back. Jon is hard when Stannis works his knee between Jon's legs, and Jon's head falls back hard against the table when he feels the hard press of Stannis' cock against his, a touch so hot he can feel it through their clothing.

Stannis does not speak like Ygritte did, he does not moan and sigh into Jon's ear as they rut against each other, but what Stannis does not say he makes up for with his hands. His hands weave their way into Jon's hair, they pull open the laces of Jon's doublet to expose Jon's chest. He runs his fingers hard along the muscles of Jon's chest, nails scratching hard over Jon's nipples that makes Jon's cock pulse and twitch, all while Stannis' mouth kisses and bites at Jon's own.

The sudden ache to sink himself into wet, warm flesh catches Jon unaware, and he groans loudly, his bottom lip caught hard between his teeth as presses his hips up. Stannis' mouth drags down to Jon's neck, wet and hungry, licking at the hollow of Jon's throat, along the dips and grooves of Jon's chest and stomach until he moves to stand in front of the table.

Stannis looks down at Jon with hard, dark eyes, his hands flat against the table on either side of Jon's hips. They do not speak, and Jon is grateful for it, does not know what he would say if he had to, does not know how to put into words the things he wants, the things he needs, other than that he does not want Stannis to stop. The king seems to understand this and he makes quick work of Jon's breeches, pulling them open and halfway down his thighs, his smallclothes with them.

Jon groans loudly at the relief to be free from the confines of his clothing, his cock is weeping and harder than it has been in months, and Jon is hard enough that he thinks he might spend the moment Stannis wraps his palm around Jon's cock. In his quest to stave off his release Jon clenches his fists at his sides, his fingernails digging crescents into his palms.

"Please..." Jon sputters out, his hips thrusting shallowly into Stannis' fist. "Please."

"What do you want, boy?" Stannis growls, his hand tugging quick, his thumb pressing just hard enough against the sweet ridge on the underside of Jon's cock.

"I want..." Jon is panting now, can barely get the words out. "I want your mouth."

Ygritte would have drawn it out, would have goaded him until he was sputtering incoherently and beyond the point of no return, but the few words are enough for Stannis and he takes Jon in his mouth; surrounds Jon with a warm, wet heat that no amount of Jon taking himself in hand could ever replace. He works his mouth and hand in tandem, sliding his lips tight on Jon, his tongue curved and his cheeks hollowed.

"Oh Gods." Jon says, the words slipping out, filling the silent room with shallow whispers. "So warm. And tight. And...Gods, ye-" He chokes as Stannis takes the whole of his cock into his mouth, his breath hot against Jon's skin.

Jon does not last long after that, only one or two slides of Stannis' mouth and Jon is bucking his hips, his face screwed up tight as he peaks hard and fast, feels the hot rush of his seed spilling into Stannis' mouth. The king does not pull back, does not allow Jon to do so either, but swallows around him, working his mouth on Jon and only when Jon has begun to soften does Stannis slip his mouth off.

"I don't understand why you won't let me give you Winterfell," Stannis says, sitting down in the chair, taking the last long pull from his cup.

Jon slides off the table, pulling his pants up, his fingers lazily doing up the laces of his doublet. "Maybe we're not as similar as you think, Your Grace."


End file.
